


{ No Matter to a Dying Man }

by orphan_account



Category: Dark Souls
Genre: Body Horror, Death, Guro, M/M, Necrophilia, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is a man of honour, and his gifts shall serve you well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	{ No Matter to a Dying Man }

You linger beyond the warrior’s final words, unmoved by his plea of caution. You cannot but feel a welling of respect in your bosom for this fallen one. Had you been countrymen before this unlife, you feel he would have made a fine ally. He is a man of honour, and his gifts shall serve you well.

 

Dirty light from above filters through the crumbling ceiling of the Asylum, bathing the man in an almost heavenly glow, a gem amongst the rubble. His chestplate continues to rise and fall gently with slowing breath. You find yourself astonished at how peaceful, how _vulnerable_ , such a noble man could appear, and reach out to graze his armoured shoulder with your gauntlet, just to see whether he is truly a mirage.

Curiosity grips you now, as you raise your hands to his visor, swinging it on its well-oiled hinge. The skin of his face, exposed, is pale and smooth, faint lashes folded over occluded eyes, lips full and pink. Such a shame, you muse, that this beauty will soon be claimed by the rot awaiting all undead, remembered as you remove your right gauntlet, surprised to see the twisted, burnt flesh of your digits, festering sores engulfing your skin, glazing it with pus. You press your fingertips to his cheek, just for a feel, but your blistered nerves are deadened by decay, and all you achieve is to defile the blank canvas of the knight’s supple facade, trails of your own ooze streaking down to his chin.

Seeing what you have painted you feel a stir within you, something you have not experienced since before you first perished. You try to shame yourself for feeling this way, but the thought cannot be denied. If the task before you is so crucial as his tale would suggest, then it would not pain him to give you any assistance he can. After all, such things are no matter to a dying man.

Any guilt assuaged, you loose the belt of your trousers, straddling the knight’s prone form. He must be barely conscious by now. Not even does he stir as you grasp his chin and push your rotting fingers between those soft lips, opening his mouth wide. The light falls at a perfect angle for you to glimpse his pink tongue, perhaps still moist, pressed behind his incisors. You wonder, with a ripple of wicked glee, if it can still taste.

It would be most fortunate for the knight if he could not. With one swift move you thrust your necrotic flesh between his teeth, the softness of the raw, mottled muscle only the dimmest concern. You will achieve no rise of this. Blood no longer circulates in your mangled form, the tight leather armour scarcely binding the sloshing sack of blackened fluid and organ together. Yet, seeing the dominion you hold over this helpless soul, the shriveled things that were your lungs fill and release more quickly. The broken synapses of your brain fire erratically, granting you the illusion of sensations long lost. You force deeper into him, friction sloughing scabbed membrane from you, painting his lips.

The smallest spasm flexes his mouth around you, the last drifts of his consciousness fighting the intrusion as you move more rapidly, arousal existent only in your mind. Such a kind and gracious favour the knight has granted you, allowing you to rob him of the peace of death. He sputters and falls back into silence. You sense his life’s energy fading, his power seeping into you, and thrust into his face, _hard_.

At length the man breathes his last, and with his final gasp you feel a release, as the whole of what was this proud knight surges into your chest, making you feel stronger, more complete. With a groan you draw yourself from him, pink, yellow strings of saliva and blood and curdled release dripping from his mouth to you. He has already begun to fade.

You right yourself and shut his helm. You must leave now before he reawakens, Hollow, and you are forced to dispatch him once and for all. It is the least courtesy you can do such a generous man.

For you, like he, are a man of honour, and his gifts shall serve you very well.


End file.
